


I Miss You

by rosncrntz



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Frank Frink is a Sweetheart, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I will never let Juliana/Frank go, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, fluff and sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 16:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Juliana reflects on the life, and the man, she's left behind. She misses it. She misses him.





	

I miss the room where I first met you. I don’t know whether I would have even noticed you, if you hadn’t looked at me that way. I caught your eye because I felt an eye on me. And I blushed, my face feeling so hot that I was sure you could see my blushing even though I was a few metres from you. I still don’t know what you saw in me. I was a mouse. Smiling at you through my hair. I couldn’t even look you in the eye. I looked at everything else so I didn’t have to look at you. I studied every stain on the wall, I noted the details of every one of my fingernails, just to keep from your grey eyes. You made small talk. You were good at small talk; I wasn’t. I remember trying to make a joke and you laughed. I assumed the laugh was out of sheer politeness. You bought me a drink. It was late when we finally parted. And we left with plans to meet again. I felt sick on the way home. It was scary and new and sudden. I thought about not turning up, just leaving you there, forgetting all about you and the conversation we had and your small smile and your laugh. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. You’d caught me.

I miss the street where we first kissed. You’d taken me to see a movie, thinking it was a cheesy date idea, but not knowing how happy it made me, and how badly I wanted to go with you. I can’t remember the film for I wasn’t watching it. All the time, every second, I thought: he’s going to kiss me, he’s going to kiss me. I knew it then. I felt it. Maybe something in the air, in the way your eyes looked, something heavy and beautiful. I waited for a bus to take me home and we talked. The cold was bitter so you gave me your coat and it seemed like we were lovers on the silver screen. You talked and I waited, knowing that the bus would be here soon, and wanting you to kiss me. Hurry up. I remember thinking it. Hurry up. Then, you did. Your words turned to air and you moved closer to me. Your eyes closed. I remember them fluttering. I had never kissed before. I didn’t know how. I closed my eyes, and moved as you did, and then I felt your breath on my bottom lip and I knew you were close. And you kissed me. You kissed me and it was wonderful. My fingers were numb. I think I knew I was in love with you.

I miss the hospital, strangely. Every time, without fail, when I opened my eyes, you were there. Those kind eyes looking down at me. When even my own mother had left me, you would remain. You looked so tired. Pallid, frail, eyelids drooping under the weight of waking hours. I begged you to rest: to go home, and sleep in your bed, and not to worry about me. You didn’t reply with words, but just shook your head, lay a warm hand on my cold hand, and smiled. You kissed my forehead. You brought flowers to brighten up my room, which they did, because they made me think of you. I was in a lot of pain. You eased it. You saved my life.

I miss the bench by the sea. You were nervous introducing me to Ed. I don’t know why – I thought he was lovely, from the moment I met him, and I’ve only grown to love him more. It made me so happy to meet a friend of yours who was so kind and so good. He spoke the world of you, too. He told me I’d ‘struck gold’, and I knew I had. Good as gold. It was warm and sunny that afternoon. I hadn't felt the sun in so long. I was feeling better that day but you were still so worried. Your furrowed brow just looked cute. You thought the breeze would cripple me. I felt a bit dizzy on the way home but I didn’t tell you. You were probably getting a headache from the stress of the day. I think you enjoyed it though, didn’t you? We were happy then. You put your arm around me and held me tightly, and I leant in, and you rested your chin on my head, and I closed my eyes and I could hear the waves.

I miss Ed.

I miss the room that we shared. You called it an apartment, before we moved in, but it really was just a room. The lock was a little stiff, but I said it was all the better, to stop people from coming in. It sounded frightening, but I only meant my mother. I wasn’t disappointed, however, when you opened the door. It was little and dark but it was ours and I adored it. There was space enough to live in. I felt safe in its walls and in your arms. There was a nook, and I knew that – if we put a desk there – you could work on your art in the light. The window was not big, and the glass was thick and dirty, but it would be enough. We never liked the light anyway, did we? I remember how you apologised that you couldn’t carry me over the threshold because of the stairs that descended straight from the doorstep. I’d only just mended and you were scared to hurt me again. You treated me like a little bird, then. Even Ed laughed at how careful you were being, but it made me feel special, and I hadn’t felt special in such a long time. We made it a home, or a home enough. Enough of a home for us. Mother hated it. I swear she almost fainted when we reluctantly invited her over. She said it was dingy. She said it was dirty. She said it was dark. But she didn’t understand what it meant to us: this was our home, our refuge, our den. This was built with our own hands. This was bought by our hard work. This was where we lived, where we loved, where you worked, where we argued, where we cried and dreamed.

I miss the sound of your pencil scratching away in the morning. You always woke early. ‘The heat of inspiration’ I called it once, laughing at you in your ‘artist frenzy’. You told me to shut up and laughed, and I laughed with you. I leant back on the pillow and fell back to sleep, lulled by the scrape of lead against paper, slow and light on the details, and heavy and fast when you wielded shadows. There was very little shadow back then. Everyone you drew was doused in light. I was doused in light, swallowed by it, occasionally. You told me I walk in the light, but I was sat in the shadow at the time. I thought you needed to put your glasses back on but, when you showed me the sketch, I saw that it was beautiful. You only ever drew me, then. When I was at the dojo, you would make jewellery. When I was asleep, you would hide it under my pillow. When I awoke, I would find it.

I miss being scared and having you there with me. I miss when you were scared and I was there with you. They were dark times, darker than our room, and it was scary. You would hold me, closer than anything, and you would stroke my hair and shush me and whisper in my ear that everything would turn out okay. I would hold you to my chest so you could hear my heartbeat, and I would stroke your hair and feel it run through my fingers as I combed it away from your forehead, and I would whisper in your ear that everything would turn out okay. I would feel your breathing slow down. I think you fell asleep. I know I fell asleep when you held me. I hope it didn’t bother you, having to stay still as I slumbered.

I saw how good you were with children. You would have made the perfect father. You said you wanted kids and I tried not to cry. I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want you to know.

I miss the arguments. I would shout and shout and shout at you and you would be so silent and so hard. As hard as stone and even colder. It was like talking to concrete, sometimes, slamming my fist into a wall, unyielding. I would even cry some days when you wouldn’t respond and I always hated myself for it later. Then, just when I thought you’d never react, you would blaze. Dogs would howl. You frightened me. You were so angry. I thought you’d never speak to me again. I thought you’d leave me. I couldn’t bear the thought. But I railed against you. We were equally matched, weren’t we? Yelling at each other. But then we’d both be silent: and you’d go to work, and I’d go to the dojo. And we’d regret it all when we were apart. Apologies were not far behind.

I miss the way you loved me. Unbound and hushed. Fervent hands searching me, drawing air from me, making my heart flutter. I felt everything. You were so gentle at first. Patience itself. You probably noticed how afraid I was: I fear it was obvious. I’ve never been good at hiding my fear. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there with you: it was just new. But you were good to me. Slow. You sighed. Your noise was so soft. You said my name and the word sounded holy. I gasped yours and the word was my prayer.

I miss you calling me Jules. No one has ever called me that, and no one has called me that since. Except for Ed, but he caught it from you. Jules: I laughed when you first said it. It suited me, and I held the name close to me always and remembered it being yours. Jules. She seems so far away from me now. She seems like another person, another soul, escaping me, running and running away from me. Running back to you. Maybe. Running back home.

I miss you, Frank. My first love, my friend. Kind, gentle, good. The artist and the lover. I’ll see you again soon. I know I will. It was always you and me, Frank. And it will be again. Before we know it.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have got the bug for TMITHC fics. I had to write something Juliana/Frank because I'm still sitting on that sinking ship. I hope you enjoyed, and comments/kudos are always appreciated!


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